


Forgotten Dreams (They Call Us Home)

by theauthorish



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Amnesia, Changelings, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Park Seonghwa-centric, ateez story line event
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25150954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theauthorish/pseuds/theauthorish
Summary: By the time he’s shut the office door behind him, Seonghwa no longer remembers the tune he’d been trying to recall.It’s so frustrating, this back and forth; like trying to keep the waves from pulling back from the shore. The tide comes, rushes in, and may even stay for a little bit. But in the end, it always goes, never settles.Are these memories even real?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Forgotten Dreams (They Call Us Home)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the story line event! If you could vote or comment (i'll leave the link below) it would mean the world to me! Def no pressure though, because you may need a vpn.... i hope you enjoy!

**PART 1**

_ 15 years ago _

Seonghwa is only six, and he has no idea where he is. What he does know is that things are wrong here.

The sun is blue above him, the sky yellow. There are stars, too, even though it’s the middle of the day— they’re purple, and everything here is  _ wrong. _

He starts to cry.

His mama, his papa, they’re gone. He’s all alone, and he doesn’t know why the sun and the sky switched colors, or why the stars are awake when it should be their bedtime, or why they’re purple, which is Seonghwa’s least favorite color, but he doesn’t  _ like it _ , and he wants to go home.

“Shh, shh.” Arms encircle him, warm, comforting. “Shh, sweetheart,” murmurs a voice, sweet as a songbird. “Why do you cry?”

“It’s wrong,” sniffles Seonghwa, waving up at the sky feebly.

“Why is it wrong?” asks the stranger, still gentle. “Tell me little one, and let’s see if I can’t fix it.”

“The colors are— they’re bad.”

The stranger steps back, then, letting him go, and Seonghwa whimpers. He knows strangers are bad too, but this one doesn’t feel like it. This stranger feels nice. She smells like flowers, and she speaks with the same softness all of Seonghwa’s favorite people speak with. He wants her to hug him again. He doesn’t want her to leave him too.

He turns to face her, chin crumpled on another sob, reaching…

“Ah, that’s why,” she says quietly to herself, as she takes Seonghwa’s tiny hands in hers, lifting them to his cheeks. She takes a deep breath and lets it go. “Wipe your tears, love. Things look different when you’re sad or scared. You won’t see properly at all if you keep crying.”

“O-okay.” Seonghwa wipes his eyes, and he still can’t see clearly quite yet, but he knows she’s smiling encouragingly at him, and she doesn’t complain at her fingers getting wet. 

When he’s done, she nudges his chin with their joined fingers, light as a feather. “Look up, now, little one. See? Everything’s all right.”

And it is. Everything’s back to normal. 

Seonghwa is safe.

/////

**PART 2**

_ Now _

Seonghwa wakes to sunlight streaming in from his blinds, and the strange feeling of loss sticking to the inside of his mouth like gum.

Or maybe that’s just his morning breath.

He groans, rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to wake himself up. He’s been having them a lot, lately: these dreams that feel like memories. They always slip away as wakefulness finds him, leaving only the faintest awareness that they had been there at all. Seonghwa can’t help but feel that they were important, that he shouldn’t have let them go.

But what can he do? By the time he’s conscious enough to try and remember them, the dreams are already gone.

/////

“Another one?” asks Hongjoong, an eyebrow raised as Seonghwa wanders into the dorm’s kitchen. Seonghwa never quite figured out how Hongjoong always knew when the dreams had hit; they certainly never seemed to follow any pattern. Then again, he was the group leader for a reason.

Seonghwa hums distractedly, pulling a mug from the cupboard. Now, where had the creamer ended up today…?

“Do you remember any of it this time?”

“She smelled like flowers,” mumbles Seonghwa, finally finding it behind a box of cereal that they really should get rid of already; it’s been sitting in their kitchen for at least three months now, and still hasn't been opened.

Hongjoong goes silent, then, apparently shocked at having an answer for once that wasn’t ‘no’. Seonghwa can relate— or he will, once he has enough caffeine in his system to properly process things. As it is, Seonghwa just pours himself some coffee and stirs in two teaspoons of cream, basking in the serenity of the morning. The other boys will be up soon enough, their loud voices and playful flailing filling up the room, and while that’s plenty pleasant… Quiet is good for the soul once in a while.

“Do you think it’ll help? Knowing that?” Hongjoong nudges the little jar of sugar towards him, and Seonghwa dips his head in thanks as he adds a spoonful to his cup.

“Maybe. It’ll at least give me something to fill the rooms with, right?”

/////

Letting yourself be hypnotized is a tricky thing to get the hang of, especially for Seonghwa, who is admittedly very private with most things, but thankfully, he’s done it enough times by now to only need a few minutes to relax into the session and allow himself to slip under.

The mind palace itself is just as tricky; a mental picture of a familiar room or building, where details inside are linked to memories to make them easier to recall, it had taken Seonghwa a great deal of time to master it, even with his hypnotist-slash-therapist’s help.

The hypnotist, a lady as understanding as she’s unwilling to stand fools, believes very firmly in building up his mind palace from scratch every time he comes to file away what slivers of memory he’s managed to salvage from his dreams (not that he had those often).

_ What does it look like from the outside? _

“Like home,” says Seonghwa, voice low. “The walls are a creamy yellow. There’s an iron gate outside, but it doesn’t close right. The windows have floral curtains drawn shut, every single one.”

_ Good. Do you wanna go inside? _

“Okay.” Seonghwa does, walks the mental version of himself down the short front yard, and to the door. He doesn’t have his key with him, but that’s fine. There’s always a spare one under the front mat. He kicks the mat’s corner up, drags the key out with the toe of his shoe, then squats down to pick it up.

He opens the door.

_ What does it look like now? _

“The vase looks empty,” says Seonghwa.

_ What vase? _

“Mother keeps a vase on the glass table. Just inside the entry hallway. She likes it full.”

_ What does the vase look like, Seonghwa-ssi? _

“It’s a beautiful clay thing.” Seonghwa approaches it, runs his finger along its smooth surface. “Deep red— or maybe brown?— with a wide round base painted with stripes, a slightly narrower neck.”

_ That’s perfect, Seonghwa-ssi. You’re getting better at details. _

_ Did you have something to put in there? _

“I have flowers.” He does: they’re clutched loosely in his hand, though he can’t say when or how he got them. “They’re red.”

_ Is that all? _

“They smell nice. Delicate. Calming.” He pauses, holding them up, but he can’t seem to see them clearly. They blur and fade and merge with each other, unsteady. “I can’t see them well,” he admits. “But this scent is… it’s lovely. I’ve never known anything like it.”

_ That’s okay then. Do you want to put them in the vase for now? _

“Yeah.”

_ Do you want to go through the rest of the house? _

“Yeah.”

_ All right. How about we go put on that record you like so much? _

/////

Seonghwa knows only a few things about her, whoever she is: her voice, her embrace, and now her scent.

Oh, and this: she had only begun appearing in his dreams when he had begun wearing a certain bracelet.

It’s a single silver chain, not too thick, not too thin, plain enough that he could wear it to his schedules without it clashing with whatever the stylists wanted. He’d found it on his last visit home, buried in the back of his drawer. He couldn’t remember for the life of him where he’d gotten it (which would, quite clearly, prove the trend, when it came to this), but it called to him somehow, so he slipped it on his wrist without much thought.

That night, he’d dreamt. When he woke up, the words, “Everything’s all right,” were ringing in his ears, curling in a nightingale’s voice, sweet as can be. Comforting, when Seonghwa had needed it without knowing— not until those words, that voice, seeped like honey into the hollow ache in his heart, filled the gap that had been slowly opening and made it feel whole again.

“Seonghwa, I’m heading out!” calls Hongjoong, somewhere in the entry hall. Seonghwa snaps out of his reverie and goes to see him off.

“Have fun with your family,” says Seonghwa, with a small wave. “Say hello for me.”

“You’ll be okay for the week?”

Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “Hongjoong,” he laughs, “If anyone should be saying that, it’s me, you big baby.”

“That’s fair,” Hongjoong admits, rolling his shoulders in a shrug. “But I know you don’t do so well alone, and the others are going to be leaving soon too. You could—”

Seonghwa shakes his head. They’ve discussed this already. “I can’t go with you. I told you, I’d hate to impose, and I still have a few sessions…” At Hongjoong’s pout, he adds, “Besides, I have to clean up the mess you gremlins leave behind while I can, and it’s too late to get a ticket.”

Hongjoong sighs. “Okay, okay. Take care, alright? Text me if—”

“ _ Yes _ , Hongjoong.” Seonghwa grabs him by the shoulders and frogmarches him out the door. “Go before you miss your bus.”

/////

The members leave the house one by one by one. Off to their families, their friends, their much-needed breaks. Seonghwa’s family has asked him not to come— the house has too many repairs to be done, they’d said. There’d be no space, no time, and they wouldn’t want to trouble him.

It’s done out of love. It always is. But Seonghwa misses them so very dearly.

/////

**PART 3**

_ 15 years ago _

The lady who made everything better is pretty, Seonghwa thinks, even if he only ever sees her in fragments. 

The curve of a cheek like a budding rose, the fan of lashes dotted with dew (or tears?) like star-studded skies. 

“Are you crying, noona?” he asks, as she crouches before him, a perfect little apple in her outstretched palm.

She pauses. “Now why would I be crying, little one?”

“I don’t know,” says Seonghwa, taking the fruit from her and turning it in his hands. “Sometimes people just cry. I saw a girl once—”

“That’s not true, precious. No one just cries; there is always a reason.”

“Always?” echoes Seonghwa, around a bite of apple. It’s sweet, but it’s also sour. He likes it. He takes another bite. 

She nods. “Always. Even if nobody else knows it yet, not even themselves.”

Seonghwa… doesn’t get it. Maybe it’s an adult thing. “Okay,” he says anyway.

Another nod, and then she turns away, plucks herself an apple from the same tree she’d gotten Seonghwa’s from. She’s so tall, so graceful. So beautiful.

“Do you not know why you’re crying, noona?”

For a long moment, there’s no answer. Seonghwa opens his mouth to repeat himself, just in case she didn’t hear him, when she says, “I do.”

“Then why?”

“Never you mind, my child,” she murmurs, coming back over to where he sits to brush a kiss over her head. “Rest now. You’ll be found soon.”

Found. Seonghwa thinks he’d quite like to be found. Found is good— but why does the noona sound so sad about it?

/////

She's singing.

Seonghwa, cradled gently to her chest, stirs slightly, but doesn’t feel ready to wake yet.

Something tells him that if he does, she will stop, and he doesn’t want her to.

“ _ When the night turns into day, _

_ The forest will claim what it gave away— _

_ And oh, my child, how I’d wish you’d stay, _

_ But if you do, a price you’ll pay; _

_ So I will let the mortals keep _

_ You, my heart, my star so sweet. _

_ I know they’ll love you, _

_ I know ‘tis true. _

_ For the forest lives in you, _

_ So when it chose them, _

_ It did for you.” _

She stops then, song complete, and pats gently at his back, making quiet cooing noises. Something jingles as she does it.

_ A bracelet _ , thinks Seonghwa, already beginning to drift off again.  _ Maybe. _

/////

**PART 4**

_ Now _

Seonghwa’s heart feels hollow and aching. His eyes are wet.

The tears don’t feel like his own. How could they, when he has no reason to cry?

No one cries without reason, though, so in all actuality, he probably just doesn't know what it is yet. Someone had taught him that a long time ago.

He fiddles with the bracelet on his wrist and lets the cold of the metal against his skin ground him. 

He allows himself to just lay there for a minute, soaking up the warmth of the morning sun like it's joy, it's really just joy made physical, and if he drinks it up like a plant, it'll spread through him until it feels like it's his own. It’s a stark contrast to the coolness of his bracelet, but that’s all the better, really, for waking up.

He remembers more of his dreams as the days go on, though why he does, Seonghwa cannot say. It seems as if the lonelier he feels, the more the dreams offer themselves up, as if in solace.  _ You may not have company, but at least you have this. _

His phone rings.

“Hello?”

_ “Seonghwa, hey, how are you?” _

“Hyung,” greets Seonghwa, finally pushing himself to his feet. “Did you need something?”

His brother laughs. “ _ Not even a proper hello, Hwa?” _ he teases, though he doesn’t pause long enough for Seonghwa to push an apology from his tongue.  _ “Don’t worry, nothing’s wrong. Mom and dad just want to check on you, but mom’s misplaced her phone again, and dad’s somehow got broken during the handiwork he was doing, so that left me. You know how it is.” _

“I do,” Seonghwa agrees, with a small chuckle of his own. He ought to find something to cook, then he can start a bit on the cleaning before he has to leave for his session. “Well, you can tell them I’m doing fine as always. I should probably go, though, my stomach might try to digest itself.”

“Oh no, we wouldn’t want that! I’ll let you go then.”

“Wait!” yelps Seonghwa, before he can hang up, accidentally yanking the pantry door too hard, hard enough the door handle thumps against the wall. He winces. “Tell them… I miss you guys.”

There’s a short pause on the other end of the line.  _ “I know. We know, Hwa. We miss you too. They just— ever since we lost you, all those years ago, they’ve just been… overly protective.” _

“I know,” says Seonghwa, voice low. “I know that.”

_ “Okay. As long as you know. I’ll update you.” _

“Yeah. Sure. Thanks, hyung.”

/////

“It’s changed,” says Seonghwa. “The flowers are different.”

_ Different how? _

“I don’t… I don’t know.” The ones in the vase are red. That feels right. His mother had always liked red tulips, so they aren’t out of place here or anything. And he knows last time he had put red flowers in. But… he could’ve sworn they weren’t tulips.

_ Can you try to tell me what they should be instead? _

“I… sunflowers?” Seonghwa doesn’t know why he says that. Why is that the flower that comes to mind, when sunflowers are rarely ever red?

_ Red sunflowers? _

_ A pause. _

_ Okay, why don’t you try to change them? This is your mind, Seonghwa-ssi. Your palace. You can mold it. _

He tries. He tries so hard, closes his eyes, and wills the flowers to shift. Red sunflowers, he thinks. Red sunflowers, he prays.

He opens his eyes, and the flowers waver— but ultimately, do not bend to his wishes.

“I can’t do it.” He frowns. “I should be able to—”

_ It’s all right, Seonghwa-ssi. We can come back to that. You said you had a new song. Do you want to go put that record in with the others? _

“Okay.”

_ Good. Why don’t you tell me what it looks like? _

“The cover has stars. Lots and lots of stars. And a forest,” says Seonghwa, heading down the hall to his father’s study, where his father kept his record collection— to the small, barely filled shelf that was for Seonghwa’s own collection. His father got him one every year until he’s moved out, and had even squeezed some of his own into boxes to free up space for Seonghwa.

His father had always shown his love that way: by sharing what mattered to him.

_ Does it have a title? _

“No.”

_ Well, why don’t you put it on, then? Maybe if you hear it, you’ll remember the title. _

That’s a pretty good idea, so Seonghwa slips the record gently from its case and walks over to his dad’s record player. He settles the vinyl in place and makes sure everything is properly hooked up before setting the needle onto the edge of it.

It begins to play. A voice (a familiar one;  _ hers _ ) begins to sing. The notes are delicate like spun sugar, sticky and saccharine, and Seonghwa can almost taste them—

And then suddenly, the song starts to waver, the record begins to scrape and scratch. It’s like the record is wearing out, but in fast-forward, and Seonghwa, he doesn’t know what to do. He reaches, belatedly, for the needle to lift it off—

The record splits cleanly down the middle.

/////

Seonghwa breaks the trance with a gasp. 

Ms. Oh is already reaching for him, steadying at his elbow, though he’s seated and shouldn’t be able to fall. He must look really bad, then. Really spooked. “Seonghwa-ssi? Are you all right? What happened?”

“I— it broke,” he mumbles.

“What broke?”

“The record,” Seonghwa explains. “It started playing funny, and then it—”

The look Ms. Oh levels him with is concerned, confused, and it puts Seonghwa on edge. He shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to see it, fills his lungs with deep breaths of air, and centers himself.

His bracelet is cold enough to almost sting, for some reason, but right now, Seonghwa is grateful for it. It gives him something to focus on.

“I don’t understand why it would do that,” he admits.

Ms. Oh’s brow furrows. “I don’t either. You weren’t showing any signs of distress, and from what you’ve done so far, whatever you’re trying to recall doesn’t seem to be traumatizing enough for repression.” She sighs, standing up and crossing to the fridge at the other end of the room. She returns a moment later and offers Seonghwa a water bottle, which he accepts with a small thanks. “You should go home and rest for now.”

/////

By the time he’s shut the office door behind him, Seonghwa no longer remembers the tune he’d been trying to recall. 

It’s so frustrating, this back and forth; like trying to keep the waves from pulling back from the shore. The tide comes, rushes in, and may even stay for a little bit. But in the end, it always goes, never settles.

Are these memories even real?

/////

**PART 5**

_ 15 years ago _

Seonghwa kicks his legs gently. This tree stump he’s seated on is big and old, and when he stands on it he feels tall, but he’s tired of standing, so he’s sitting.

She’s combing through his hair with her fingers. “You’ll go home soon, little one. Your papa and mama are looking so hard for you,” she whispers, almost too quiet for Seonghwa to hear.

Papa and mama! Seonghwa lights up—

And then dims back down. “Mama?” he asks.

“Yes?”

“Why can’t I remember mama’s face?” Seonghwa pouts. “Or papa’s?”

The lady’s hands shake. Seonghwa hears her swallow. But what is she eating? She finished her apple earlier. “You didn’t forget, my precious star. When you see them you’ll remember. They’re coming soon.”

“They are?”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “They are. Now hold still so I can finish.”

“Are you the one jingling?” he asks, trying his best to be a statue. It’s hard. Statues must get so bored.

The hands in his hair pause again. “Jingling, sweetheart?”

He starts to nod but then remembers not to move. He stops. “Yeah.”

“Like this?” her hand comes into view, extended over his shoulder, and she shakes it. A silver chain clasped loosely around her wrist rattles with the movement.

“Yeah!”

“I guess it is me, then,” she laughs lightly. She pulls her hand back and runs her fingers through his hair one more time. “There. All done.”

In the silence after, before Seonghwa can turn and thank her, voices drift in from afar. They sound… familiar. They sound… like…

“Goodbye, my little one,” says the lady, kissing his cheek. Goodbye? Why is she saying goodbye? Seonghwa grabs at her arm, at her bracelet. He wants her to stay. She keeps him safe. 

Gently, she slips the bracelet off and lets him hold it, but doesn’t let him hold her anymore, pulling her hand away. “Stay safe, stay well,” she says. “Remember you are loved, my darling.”

Seonghwa is confused. He’s scared, though he doesn’t know why. “Noona?” He turns, but she’s gone. He’s alone again, and he doesn’t know why. Where did she go? Why is everyone gone?

It’s getting dark. It’s cold.

He’s so scared.

He sniffles. “Noona?” he calls again, softer. He stands, twists around looking for her. Is she hiding? “Noona? I promise I’ll behave. No more moving.”

She doesn’t come.

He begins to cry for real.

And then— “There! Seonghwa! Seonghwa, you’re safe!” Arms catch him, spin him around. Whoever’s holding him is crying. And someone else too. 

Seonghwa stops crying long enough to look at who’s holding him, and he knows her, he must, but he can’t— “Seonghwa, don’t cry anymore, baby, mama’s got you.”

“Mama?” he croaks. Mama? Oh, it  _ is _ her. He remembers now. He remembers, and he missed her so much. He looks around, and there’s his papa, crying too, watching them. Seonghwa reaches for him. “Papa,” he sobs. “Papa, I was alone!”

“Shh, Seonghwa,” his papa soothes, though his hands tremble when he takes Seonghwa from mama. “It’s all okay. It’s okay.”

/////

“Seonghwa, baby, where did you get that?” asks his mama, when they have him bundled up tight in blankets, in the backseat of a clunky borrowed jeep. They’re taking him home.

“Get what?” he chirps, around the straw of his apple juice. It tastes more sour than sweet. Seonghwa doesn’t want to drink it anymore.

“The bracelet you’re holding.”

Seonghwa blinks down at it. He… how did he get it? He remembers… the smell of flowers. That’s it. 

“Did someone give it to you? Was someone with you?” Mama prods again.

Seonghwa… doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He shrugs.

Mama and Papa look at each other. “Did you just find it?”

“I… I think so.” Maybe he did. If he doesn’t remember anyone, he must have found it. Maybe he just forgot. 

“Hm. Okay. Seonghwa, honey, can I borrow it? I’ll just clean it.”

/////

**PART 6**

_ Now _

The next time he goes to see Ms. Oh, Seonghwa tries unsuccessfully for an hour to pull up the mind palace properly. Every time he builds it up, tries to fill it, he finds the fragments of his dreams slipping away as quickly as they come. 

A charm bracelet with softly chiming bells falls apart before he can set it on his mother’s dresser. The apples he arranges in the fruit bowl are all bruised. He sets down a comb and finds it vanishes between one blink and the next.

He’s getting frustrated, and Ms. Oh seems to be out of ideas to help; Seonghwa thanks her for her help so far, pays her for her time, then leaves. 

She suggests a few other specialists and gives him their contacts before he goes, adamant that just because she’s at a loss, doesn’t mean others will be. Seonghwa agrees, and even reaches out to some of them, but about the third time he calls and starts getting a generic trauma story foisted on him as if it were his own, he gives up. This isn’t about trauma at all. 

He doesn’t book any more sessions. With any of them.

/////

Seonghwa soon makes up his mind and takes the bracelet from his wrist. It’s strange: something that had been so comforting, such an anchoring weight… taking it off feels liberating, like a shackle unlocked.

Maybe some things are best left forgotten. 

/////

**PART 7**

_ A Random Memory _

Once, as a child, Seonghwa had read about changelings. 

Well, more accurately, his mother had read about them to him, but close enough.

Changelings, she’d said, were faerie children left in place of human ones.

Seonghwa had asked, back then, if the faerie kids ever missed their parents.

His mother had paused to consider it. She had never looked at Seonghwa like a child, even when he was one. She’d always answered him carefully when he wanted to know something. Seonghwa liked that. ( _ Still _ likes it.)

Finally, she’d replied, “I think they forget who their parents are. They grow up thinking the human ones are their parents, and those humans don’t know they aren’t either, so no one corrects them.”

“Oh. If they remembered, would they miss their real parents?”

“Probably,” said his mother. Then, she’d grinned at him. “Why, do you remember  _ your _ faerie parents, Seonghwa? Do you miss them?”

“Mama!” Seonghwa had giggled, squirming away from her tickling fingers. “I’m not a changeling! I’m your son!”

“That’s right!” she’d laughed, scooping him up and swinging him through the air so he shrieked with laughter. “My beautiful baby boy.” She kissed his cheek. “We thought you were, though, at first. You were so beautiful, so sweet and kind. We thought an angel like you could only have been a faery.”

“Angels aren’t faeries, mama,” Seonghwa had pointed out.

She’d chuckled. “And you’re so smart too! Are you sure you’re not a changeling, baby?”

“I’m sure!” He took her hand. “But we can play pretend that I am. I want to. Let’s go! We can go outside and…”

/////

**PART 8**

_ Now _

Seonghwa hears the lock click open and drops the bracelet into his drawer.

It’s Yunho at the door. His eyes are red-rimmed and shadowed. His body slumps. But he looks… happy. He’s smiling, just a little. As soon as they meet gazes, Yunho says, “He’s okay. Hyung’s okay.”

Seonghwa smiles and pulls him into a hug. “I’m glad. I’m really glad.” He squeezes Yunho gently, listens to his giggle, and lets it wrap around him like a warm blanket. “Did you eat?” he asks when he eventually pulls away.

Yunho shakes his head.

“Come on then, I’ll cook for you.”

/////

One by one, the boys return. The dorm gets noisy again over the next few days, and with the chatter and the warmth comes a mess, but it isn’t like Seonghwa minds. He’s mostly forgotten about her, by now; the bracelet no more than a vague itch at the back of his mind, easily ignored in favor of his found family and all their chaos. (Wooyoung and San, in particular, haven’t stopped screaming at each other since they arrived, and Seonghwa’s both grateful for the noise and on the verge of chasing them down to throttle them— or maybe join them; he’s still deciding.)

And if Seonghwa sometimes remembers the scent of flowers wafting on the breeze or the lilt of a lullaby melody, well, he’ll learn to take it as it comes. Maybe the waves won’t stay, but they won’t disappear either.

Whoever she is, whoever she was to him, she must have cared for him. Seonghwa feels it in his heart. No, more than that: he knows it with certainty.

But he doesn’t need her to be happy. Not when he has this: seven rowdy boys to spend his days in and days out with, a family back home that has done nothing but keep him safe and give him joy.

He’s content with this.

/////

_ Remember you are loved, my darling. _

**Author's Note:**

> http://ateez.kqent.com/bbs/board.php?bo_table=gevent&wr_id=1092
> 
> You might need a vpn and set it to south korea, but I'd appreciate it so much if you liked and commented over on my entry if you can! Thank you!!!


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